Comedy! Anger! Live!

Saw a bizarre display of late-night, drunken comedy at the festival "Best of the Fest" last night. The line-up was filled with funny-accented English speakers (Irish, Scotch, Aussie, blah) until Rich Hall, the headliner and final performer of the night, came on at nearly one a.m. I've seen him a couple of times already at the Fringe, but he was in particularly belligerent form on this night, declaiming things like, "Man, what the hell am I talking about?" and "I guess you could say that I'm pretty damn drunk, ladies and gentlemen!" As he knotted up his twelve minutes, he began goading the audience. After harassing some attractive first-row women, his attentions soon settled on an Aussie girl in the fifth row. Through his pestering, he found out that the girl had been dating her boyfriend for four years. He asked, "Well, is your boyfriend here tonight?" He was. He was right next to her. Rich Hall then interrogated the boyfriend, demanding an answer to why he had only been "dating" this beautiful woman for four years. "Take the plunge!" he yelled, "You're not going to find anyone more beautiful than her... I mean, look at you and look at her. Go for it!" The crowd began cheering on. Mr. Hall moved closer to the couple and continued his pestering, "What the fuck are you waiting for?" A few seconds later, the comedian jumped off the stage and entered the audience, taking a seat next to the couple. With mic in hand, he pressed and pressed. "Time to go for it, okay!" But he soon realized the futility of this pestering. He gave up, sort of, and went back onto to the stage. He began giving a little drunken, comic sendoff to the standoff, when the couple began heckling him from the audience, shouting "Enough!" and "Just shut up!" Mr. Hall was obviously a bit fazed by this lash back, but went on to close his set, the air thick with awkwardness.

Then, Adam Hills, the night's MC came on to end the show. In the process, he attempted to make nice with the couple, assuring them that Mr. Hall had placed the boyfriend in a no-win situation. Before he could say goodnight, though, Rich Hall bounded back onto the stage, grabbed the mic back from Adam Hills and walked right back up to the couple, saying, "Okay now. We're going to raise the stakes here." Immediately, the girlfriend got out of her seat, walked onto the stage and took the mic from Rich Hall - now completely dumbfounded. She said something like, "Now I'm gonna raise the stakes here!" At this point, I turned my head to look at Daoud (castmate and swell audience partner) and saw open-mouthed shock at the proceedings. I must have resembled it. The girlfriend (quite sotted herself) then blabbed something like, "That man over there has been my boyfriend for four incredible years and I love him more than anything." The audience was rapt. "I've got an idea for you, Rich. I want you to get down on your knees and propose to Adam right now." To this, Rich asked, "My one question is this: do I get to be the mommy or the daddy?" She said, "the mommy." Mr. Hall then told Adam Hills to, "Get close and suck mommy's dick!"

Highland Haiku

Scots love ice cream time.
It must sooth their wasted throats
After they go puke.

Hallowed Hollow Halls

Right now, I'm seated in the back of some panel discussion about the various fringe festivals throughout the world. The moderator is a short British man with a bright voice and he's seated between several organizers of the festivals. One Russian audience member keeps interrupting the discussion to ask how much it costs to produce a show. Seriously, he piped up just after the introductions were made and the polite applause subsided. "HOW MUCH TO DO SHOW?" "DO I MAKE MONEY FAST?" He's obviously got a golden script.

Oh my god, this is a torturous talk - one of those discussions that seems perfectly engaging to the folks onstage, but reminds the audience of being trapped in the musty bedroom of a strange relative's apartment. I'm assuming that the audience is comprised mainly of hopeful producers, hoping that a few smiles and an ass washing will get them a good venue. Of the panelists, one guy runs the Prague fringe and one woman runs the Brighton fringe. If they mated, they might spawn a proper festival. I should be happy, though, since this is not a commercial audition. These idealists before me at least have the decency to produce predominantly terrible theater in bleak cities throughout Europe. I mean, wouldn't you want to see the world premiere of "Wrinkles in Time (Granny Gets A Man)"? Yes, you would. I know you and you've been waiting for this exact event. (PICTURED: Artistic Director of the Prague Fringe)

The Horror

Saw my first display of violent Scottish hooliganism last night and I might not be the same again. A few of us were wandering the town before we headed into a pub for a beer. So there we are, drinking at a table in the "snug room" (the Scots are very into their pubs having semi-private "rooms" while getting blind drunk), when we hear female screams coming from outside. We all looked out the window to find the noise and saw four guys in the acts of both putting up and swinging their dukes. The narrative of the fray soon chrystalized as three of the men soon stood over one. They began a physical assault so horrific that William Wallace might have wet his pants. After a few moderately punishing blows to the victims face, the assumed hero of this torture emerged. This white-shirted lunatic decided that all the fist-to-helpless-jaw contact was bothering his hand, so he used the next best extremity. I had never know the resilience of the human skull until this night.

Stomp to the face. Stomp to the face. The bar had called the police by now. Stomp to the face. Blood began casting a glossy layer of red over the victim's face. Stomp to the face. The victim's head was rendered totally motionless by this point - it's only movement being the natural kickback of muscle once the neck had been twisted by a stomp.

Convinced that the pummelee had been nearly killed, the white-shirted thug moved off to finish his Guinness or something. Miraculously, the victim rose to his feet with the help of a friend. And just as abruptly, my faith in the general goodness of man sunk. (PICTURED: a prospective street murderer)

Let Me Eat Cake

I've seen a ton of stand-up comedy since arriving here in Edinburgh. Half of it has been by UK men. These guys make jokes about poop and this crazy phenomenon of the apparent scaling back of sexual activity once one is married. Revelatory. The other half has been by Americans. And according to my highly unscientific, bigoted survey, the Americans are funnier. The funniest has been Maria Bamford and her one-woman show, "Plan B", which details her family and friends' reception to her move back to her hometown in Minnesota. To borrow the style of Scottish critics, "What follows are robust yet astute characterizations, which plunge Miss Bamford into an amusing vortex of the uncanny - she is back home, yet utterly not at home. Altogether, a most welcome romp of untold hilarity." The woman is flippin' funny, with the kind of talent and intelligence that makes you want to inhale the vapors of her personal space.

On an ego bathing note, The Civilians received a Fringe First Award from the local paper of record, The Scotsman. So this morning, at 10:15am, a little ceremony was held for us and the other honored productions. With this distinction came a plaque, a quasi-guarantee of sell-out houses, and free coffee and croissants. I don't know about you, but to me, "free" translates to "open to abuse". By the time we all march up to receive the thing, I had drank so much espresso that my jaw had developed it's own personality and began counting all the patient heads in the audience. Of course, I didn't have to say a word (that job was left to our director), but my effect must have been menacing.

Panicky in the UK

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly one month since my last pig-headed diatribe. Tell the truth, I wish I had something petty to ridicule, but I'm starved for ideas. Oh, got it! First, the facts: I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland for the Fringe Festival. I'm performing with The Civilians (a theater company that cares) in "(I Am) Nobody's Lunch". We're playing the Assembly Room, right in the bleeding heart of this ye olde city - this city of birds who make horrific sounds outside my bedroom window, this city of "Oh Shit! There's a castle behind that bus!," this city of cheap beer and expensive nuts. Since we're playing this particular venue, we get free passes to most of the cooler shows. So, after our 15:15 performance (military time, since UKers like to pretend they're always at war), the cast hiked up a long road to the Pleasance venue. We wanted to catch the controversial and orgasmically praised production of "My Name is Rachel Corrie." We did catch it. Willy from the Simpsons might have called it a boring piece of shite. I will call it the definitive reason why no one should ever publish a diary. (Being that I'm blogging right now, you might think that I'm a hypocrite to say that. You would be right.)

Wait... I think... no, I'm sure that we're now on a terror alert. We are. The UK airports are in a panic of sorts, since the authorities have foiled a terror plot to explode nearly a dozen US-UK flights over the Atlantic. Fun. I'll write once my fear is assuaged back to a healthy orange.